


Rode Hard and Put Away Drowning

by captaintinymite (augopher)



Series: Lyric Lines as Dialogue [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Scott, College Student Stiles, Derek Hale Saves Stiles Stilinski, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, German Mythology - Freeform, Love Confessions, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, The Nogitsune is only a manifestation of nightmares, full shift derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/captaintinymite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' nightmares have been getting progressively worse. So, he finds himself sleeping less and less each night due to the harsh way he wakes up after every one. Until one night...</p><p>He doesn't wake up.</p><p>It's up to the pack to save him, and Derek is the one to volunteer for the dangerous job. Will Derek find Stiles and where he's locked inside his mind in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rode Hard and Put Away Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my [Lyric Lines as Dialogue](http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/post/124933236382/oh-look-a-prompt-event-cue-jazz-hands) prompt event
> 
> Fic comes from two ask box prompts:
> 
> From [bistiles](http://bistiles.tumblr.com/) #15 -- In which maybe Stiles is doubting his sanity, there are crimes pointing to him again, and Derek is the only one that can vouch that Stiles didn't do it. But it's not enough. (or idk basically anything you want, I kinda went insane here)
> 
> From Anon: 26. "I don't know if I've been screaming in the dark or dreaming"- With a dream stealing/haunting creature
> 
> #15 "I' can't fucking breathe, much less believe the truth," comes from Highly Suspect's ["Lydia"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2To1HSOding)"
> 
> #26 "I don't know if I've been screaming in the dark or dreaming," comes from Slaves' ["Starving for Friends"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql7gHUHEgrw)  
> (Cw: the video is shaky and kind of has a flashing light effect)
> 
> Also created for SterekWeek 2015 Day 7: Halloween

 

Stiles awoke with a start, gasping for air, feeling like he was underwater. It took several seconds of staring up at the ceiling in terror before he could even move. Then, with heaving breaths, he pawed at his chest and winced. It wasn’t the way he woke up, nor the location (on the floor next to his bed where he’d landed with a thud) that had him so on edge.

No, it was the reason for both the location and waking up in the first place.

He’d had this dream dozens of times now, at least once a month for the past three years now. By now he was an old pro at watching the lights above him become distorted the way anything did if you looked up at it from underwater, was more than familiar at the way the frigid water sapped the heat from his body. He was a seasoned veteran at holding back the darkness around his heart. But he’d never felt the dream like this.

Every other time before, it was the shadows and the way they followed him never touching, yet always nipping at his heels, how they tipped the scales of the dream from a subconscious mindfuck to nightmare, not the lack of air that scared him the most in the dream. It was common, but he could handle it.

Now, from where he lay on the floor, he trembled in full body quakes with a racing heart, unable to catch his breath. He was awake, and still, he thrashed his arms and legs around on the floor as though fighting for the surface...just in case.

Had he been screaming? He couldn’t say for sure, even though his throat felt raw, and he imagined that if he were to try and speak his voice would be hoarse.

Pushing himself to his knees so he could grab his phone off his nightstand, he checked the time. 03:17. Well crap. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep for a while. Instead, he crawled back into bed and stared at the posters on his wall, counting the minutes until dawn.

 

****

 

“Dude, you look terrible,” Scott said, “couldn’t sleep again?”

Stiles shrugged. He’d been neglecting to say anything about the darker turn his dreams had taken lately. Over the last three weeks, for more nights than not, he had screamed himself awake in the dark. The dreams were getting worse. He had no idea that recurring nightmare of drowning could actually get worse, but apparently- He shuddered at the memory.

So far, he’d drowned many, many times. Then, there was also the smoke inhalation, smothered by his own pillow, and crushed Han Solo style by a massive trash compactor. Then, of course, there was last night. He’d been pinned to a tree by a car slowly crushing him to death.

And it really had been slow.

As he stood there, held in place by the crumpled bumper, he’d watched the sun set on the horizon, watched the moon move across the sky, stars twinkle and slowly fade as the sun came back up. The driver, the one responsible for his predicament?

He fucking hated how smug his face looked with the Nogitsune wearing it. The asshole had just sat there on the mangled hood of the car, smirking at him, offering taunts of how ‘This time, it’s permanent,’ blah, blah, and blah. Keeping watch beside him, had been two Oni. The blackness of their soulless mask had turned his blood to ice. Not literally. No, that would have been too quick.

Stiles shook himself out of his thoughts. “Nope.”

“Maybe see a doctor? You need to sleep. You look like you’re about to crash any moment. I’m worried.”

And damn. His intention to _not_ worry Scott, had only wound up worrying Scott. Gah!

Stiles scratched his eyebrow before tugging Scott into an unoccupied room where he tried his best to explain it to him. “So, yeah. Every night I wake up gasping for air. I’m not even exaggerating. I can’t fucking breathe, much less believe the truth that it was just a dream. My throat always feels like I’ve run it through a grinder. It aches so much, and the sad thing is, I don't know if I've been screaming in the dark or dreaming. I mean… I know I’ve been dreaming, but I don’t know if the screaming I’m doing in the dreams is real or in my head.”

Scott’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “You think this is because of the sacrifice?”

He rubbed his temples. “I don’t know, man. Maybe. But...it’s been a while. You know? Why now?”

“I know. Well,” Scott said as he clapped him on the back, “let me talk to Deaton. He’s out of town on some conference about livestock. I can see if he knows anything.” Scott waved good-bye and continued walking to his Chemistry Lab.

Stiles stood in the middle of the hallway as other college students passed on either side of him. “You know he never actually gives us answers right?” he called after him.

He ran both hands through his hair. What was he even doing in this building in the first place? His Abnormal Psychology class was on the other side of campus. Damn it.

 

****

 

And so it continued. Night upon night, Stiles woke up, throat raw and body trembling. As the days went on, he found it took longer and longer to catch his breath upon waking.

Deaton had turned out to be a bust, big surprise there, reminding them to stay vigilant, to keep their minds closed to anything looking for a way in.

One month passed, then two, and by the third month of the nightly terror, Stiles felt like a walking corpse. He’d been running on less than four hours of sleep a night for so long, he couldn’t remember what being well-rested actually felt like.

After he started waking up on the floor on a regular basis, Stiles implemented what he had dubbed ‘The Stiles Stilinski Sleepwalking Inhibitor,’ which was, more or less, setting up a minefield in his room.

Folding chair from the garage here. Pile of phone books (who the hell used those anymore? Like seriously, why do they even make them still?) there. Anything that he could trip over should he experience _another_ bout of somnambulism like he had with the Nogitsune. It was his hope that if he fell down, he’d wake up.

As far as he could tell, it had been successful...so far. Time would only tell.

The dark circles under his eyes resembled half moons at this point. With a sigh, he picked up the can of shaving cream off the sink. He’d gone as long as he could without shaving. Not everyone was blessed with fantastic facial hair genes like Derek Hale.

Behind him, he heard the telltale creak of the hallway floorboards. “Morning, Pops.”

“Trouble sleeping again?”

Stiles was fairly certain his scoff as he lathered up his face said it all. He glanced away from his reflection to his father and saw the worried yet world weary expression on his face. “I’m fine.”

His father gripped the moulding of the door jamb, gripped it hard enough that Stiles could see the white of his knuckles. “Is the like the problem before? The uh…”

Stiles dragged the razor down his cheek, then rinsed it in the sink. “No, at least I don’t think so. I keep waking up on the floor. I have this,” he gestured over his shoulder with the razor, flinging droplets of water and shaving cream all over the bathroom, “minefield set up in my room. It’s been undisturbed.”

His dad wiped a small blob of shaving cream from his face, frowning a little at his son. “Can you put down the razor, please?”

“Oh,” Stiles looked at his hand, “right. Sorry. I don’t know what it is. We talked to Deaton, but…”

“Vague as usual?”

“Ding, ding, ding. Johnny, tell him what he’s won. Scott’s sent messages to Derek,” Stiles grimaced, hating how much it hurt to say the guy’s name. Up and left, again. Didn’t say goodbye to Stiles… again.. Okay, that was not entirely true.

The pack had a run in with a vengeful faerie before Derek left, a faerie with a grudge and a poor memory when it came to facial recognition. So, just because Derek happened to look like a guy who’d killed her family, she tortured his mind in the worst way, undid all the progress he’d made. Just because Stiles knew and understood why he needed to get away for a while, it didn’t mean it felt good with him gone.

“You know, because he always seems to know weird supernatural stuff and will actually fill us in, but ah...nothing. Radio silence. I don’t think he’s responded to a single one of Scott’s messages, which is worrisome I guess. He either doesn’t care what happens to me, even though I could have sworn we were friends by now, which- I don’t think that’s it. I’m just concerned he went feral and will hereto and henceforth be known as Wolfman Derek, which would suck for...reasons.” His dad made a slight hum of resignation. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“You used to make the same face when I talked about Lydia. It’s the one where you are upset that I keep talking about someone who will never return my affections. I’m adult; I’ll deal.” Really, it was like he had a kink for unrequited love. Whatever, that was not the point here.

Stiles rinsed and wiped his face on the towel. “I’ll figure something out. Buy some Unisom or something.” He could tell by the look on his father’s face that the man did not believe him. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” He pushed past his dad and into his room. “I’ll be fine. I’d love to stay and talk about this more, but I have a midterm in half an hour.”

As he hefted his backpack onto his left shoulder, he tried to push the unease that his words were as thinly veiled as they felt out of his mind.

 

****

 

Sheets of rain pounded the roof above him, but Stiles couldn’t hear a thing. He lay in bed, deeply asleep, hands fisted in his sheets as his mouth hung open. Every few seconds an audible gasp for air, filled the room. His body was rigid, sunken far deeper into the mattress than his hundred and sixty-five pound frame should be.

Though lightning flashed outside, Stiles’ bedroom was the very definition of dark: a total absence of light.

A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead; his mouth moved in silent words, words that, if anyone could hear them, would scream ‘Help! Somebody help! I can’t breathe!”

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Stiles was locked in a dangerous struggle, and no one knew about it.

 

****

 

Stiles had blacked out, and when he came to, he had to hold up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light above him. “Wha-” He was just in an airplane suffering from loss of cabin pressure. All the oxygen masks malfunctioned. He’d felt the kick as he had so often lately when he began to feel his life slipping away from him. Every other time he’d wake up on the floor.

And wait...he was lucid dreaming now? That was new. It terrified him.

He sat up, every muscle aching. All around him lay scattered pieces of broken fuselage. A small part of the wreckage burned off to his left.

“This is a dream,” he reminded himself, smacking himself on the cheek a few times, in hope it would jar him awake. When it didn’t work, he stood and started walking. “Oh my god. This is just like _Inception_. Where’s an Arthur when I need one?”

So, without an idea what the hell was going on, or where he was going, Stiles began walking. This was all in his head anyway. Who cared if he got lost? However, he found, the farther he walked, with every step, he could practically feel his energy draining out of him. Before long, each step became torture.

Something scraped along the ground, and he looked down to see his feet encased in cinder blocks. Two rough sets of hands grabbed him under the arms and dragged him towards a bridge. “No, wait! Wait!”

Just before he was pushed over the edge, he looked up to see his own face. The hands holding him belonged to two Oni just like every night since he was crushed by the car.

“This is fun. Don’t you think, gentlemen? Taunting this kid every night? Did you know he thinks he’s possessed again?” The Nogitsune’s harsh cackle filled Stiles with such dread that when his body hit the water it was a welcome release. Almost

Eyes open, he still fought for the surface to no avail. He watched himself sink deeper and deeper below the surface. Surely, he would eventually hit bottom and be jarred awake.

The kick never came.

 

****

 

“Stiles,” John rapped on the outside of his son’s door. “Don’t you have Stats at 10:30? It’s quarter after.”

He waited, but there was no answer. So he tried again. “I know you’re home. I heard you get in last night. Stiles?”

John fiddled with the doorknob. “Hey, you locked me out. If you’re sick, that’s fine. Just make sure you email your professor. I’m heading to the station. I’ll come back to check on you later.”

And so, he walked out the front door, hopping into his cruiser bound for the station.

His shift crawled by, with nary a noise complaint all day. Paperwork he’d been too busy to complete finally would get scratched off his To-Do list. He clicked his pen and set it to paper.

As far as bureaucracy went, performance reviews weren’t so bad.

Around 01:30, Parrish knocked on his office door. “Hey, I was about to head down to Sally’s for some lunch. You want to join me?”

John shook his head. “Stiles is home sick, and I promised I would swing by during lunch to check up on him, see if he needed me to run to Rite-Aid for medicine. Thanks for the offer.”

The drive back to the house took far longer than he expected with a blown water main on First Avenue blocking traffic. By the time they closed the road, he was too far into the mix to turn around. So he sat and waited.

Twenty minutes of total stand still, he called Melissa and asked if she could stop by before her shift. Maybe she could give him the heads up and he would arrive home with medicine instead of going back out for it.

Now was one of those times where he wished he had a partner to talk to, or unlimited data so he could listen to sports talk radio. As it stood, he had neither, and after almost an hour, he was about to pull his hair out.

There was already an officer directing traffic at that point. "Jesus, why didn’t I think of that?" He cursed himself for his lack of forethought, and continued down the road.

His phone rang. Thank God for Bluetooth. “Hello?”

Melissa’s frantic voice filled the car, “John, you need to get over here right now! I can’t get Stiles to wake up. His vitals are steady, but he’s out cold. You said he was sick, but you didn’t fill me in. So, I called Scott to get details. Just- get here.”

John switched on the siren and sped home. By the time he got there, he expected to see an Ambulance, but instead found Dr. Deaton examining his son. “What-”

“Scott spoke to me a couple months ago about Stiles’ sleeping troubles,” the doctor continued in his trademark even tone. Did anything faze him? “At first, I was hesitant to connect it to the sacrifice they went through, but now-” He turned his attention back to Stiles, shining a penlight in his eyes. “His pupils are responsive, and he’s breathing. I will continue researching.”

John looked at his son’s rigid form lying motionless on the bed. He looked, for lack of a better word, petrified. Hadn’t Stiles suffered enough as a result of that stupid sacrifice? If he’d have know his son would go through so much because of it, John would have told Stiles to leave him for dead.

 

****

 

Stiles had been sinking for so long, he couldn’t even see the light from the surface anymore. He was freezing, and tired, and afraid. Terrified. Maybe if he just closed his eyes…

It didn’t work. Even with his eyelids squeezed shut, he knew he was still submerged. His lungs burned, had been burning for ages it felt like now. When he opened his mouth to let the water rush in, they still burned.

Still, he kept fighting for the surface, desperately clinging to the hope that if he was still alive, despite lungs full of water, then maybe he would…

Wait a minute. This was a dream. There was no way out; only waking up would help.

With that in mind, he quit fighting the waves and swam _with_ the water. Eventually, it started to work. The sunlight became visible again. He was going to do this. He could do this.

But mere feet from the surface, something grabbed hold of his ankle, dragging him back into the depths. Stiles looked down to see an enormous tentacle wrapped around his leg. His eyes widened in fear just before another one encircled his waist. Then…

He saw its face, the same smug, mirror image of himself that had been haunting him for years.

_No! No! Wait!_

Everything turned black.

 

****

 

“What do you mean, he won’t wake up?”

Scott held the phone away from his ear as Derek screamed down the line, liked he’d been doing for the last five minutes. For crying out loud, Scott had already told him everything. Why didn’t he ever- “I mean something’s been causing him to not sleep for more than a few hours a night for months. Just-” Once more, held the phone away from his ear and waited. “I don’t care where you are or how you’re finally in a good place emotionally! You know things, Derek. Your family knew just as much as Deaton about this supernatural stuff! Please, come help us. We don’t know what else do. _I_ don’t know what else to do.” He a hand through his hair. He should just spill the beans. Stiles would hate him, but hate is better than being dead. “Stiles is the one who usually helps figure this out.” _Deep breath, Scott._ “Look, you haven’t been here. You left. Trust me, please.”

“Okay. It’s gonna take a couple days. I’m in Idaho.”

Scott looked at Stiles’ motionless form on the bed. “Just hurry.” When he ended the call, he collapsed into Stiles’ computer chair. It physically hurt him to see his best friend like this knowing he wouldn’t be able to help him.

As he stared, he watched Stiles grab the sheets, fisting his hands in them; he clutched them so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the veins in his hands popped out a bit. This was more movement than he’d seen from Stiles in days, and he gasped.

A wave of fear so thick _anyone_ would have been able to smell it rolled off Stiles and filled the room. Scott was going to be sick. “Stiles!” he yelped, shaking him. “Come on, wake up! Wake up, Stiles!”

 

****

 

Stiles felt like he was floating, weightless as air moved around his body, and he opened his eyes. All around him, he could see sky. There were no birds, only the sound of thrashing and waves. Then, he started to come back down.

He turned his head only to see the monstrous creature that had dragged him to the depths. Its tentacles flailed wildly on the surface of the ocean below, each one grabbing for him. A small breath of relief escaped his lips, relief that was short lived once he realized that he was falling towards the beast with no signs of slowing. Surely, it would not be long before he was within reach.

Eyes screwed shut, because he just couldn’t see its face again and that enormous eye wherein he’d see the Nogitsune, he fought the air as if _that_ would slow his momentum. It was only preventing the inevitable, and when pain tore through his body, sending him in another direction, he knew his time had come again.

The wriggling arms batted him back and forth for ages, it seemed, content to play with their prey. Of course he was prey, he was _always_ the prey. Ear splitting and maniacal laughter boomed around him; Stiles could feel the vibration of it in the marrow of his bones. When one tentacle wrapped around one leg, another around his arm, and so forth until five different arms held him, his blood froze.

“No! Please! Wait!”

A sickening pop echoed around him, and Stiles had the unfortunate experience to see his legs fly past him then his arms before the tentacular noose around his neck tightened.

He blacked out before he could feel his head ripped from his body.

 

****

 

Downstairs in the Stilinski residence, the whole pack had gathered to brainstorm, research for anything that might explain what was wrong with Stiles. Melissa had even gone so far as to draw blood and test for all kinds of rare diseases that might trap him in his body like this. Their collective faces showed the dread the all felt.

John looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and although it had only been one week since Stiles had failed to wake up, he’d only slept when they made him. Lydia’s hair had been pulled into a messy bun; she couldn’t remember the last time she washed it. Kira lounged about in a pair of Stiles’ sweatpants and one of his t-shirts, too worried to return home for clean clothes of her own. At the moment, Scott slept in the arm chair, the pack finally forcing him to shut his eyes for a couple hours.

Derek though, stared at the bookcases lining the living room wall. They were filled with fewer books than one might imagine. Instead, movies and family photos sat upon their shelves. He’d arrived yesterday, and the moment he saw Stiles, not only did his stomach roll and his heart stop for a few moments, but everything he’d tried to bury came rushing back.

When he left, his head wasn’t in a good place. He’d been attacked _again_ , and all the progress he’d made when he attained his full wolf form went out the window. Doubts of self-worth and feelings of loathing overwhelmed him. He needed to get away, had to, if he was ever going to be strong enough to finally tell Stiles how he felt.

He had to sort himself out again, or he’d never deserve him.

So for the last three months, he’d been running around in wolf form, spending most of that time in Sawtooth National Forest. He’d frolicked along the mountainsides of Redfish Canyon, had swum in the clear blue waters of Hanson Lake. He spent those nights sleeping under the stars where he could see the Milky Way as clear as he’d ever seen it.

There had not been a hunter or supernatural _anything_ to fuck with him. After a night where he saw the Aurora Borealis dance in the sky above Stanley Lake, he felt closer to his family than he had since before the fire. Though he knew it wasn’t true, it seemed like they were reaching out to him, telling him it wasn’t his fault, and finally, finally, he could forgive himself.  It was the best therapy he could possibly have. All that time as a wolf, cleared his head, and once more, he’d learned to love himself.

Then, he decided to return to the cabin his family had owned nearby and made the mistake of turning back on his phone. Dozens of messages, both voicemail and text, bombarded him. He ignored most of them, until he reached the ones from Stiles. They started off simple, with well-wishes for his sabbatical, and became increasingly more anxious and paranoid until he listened to the last message from Stiles.

 

…” _Derek, I know you’re communing with nature, but something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but I wake up every morning, and I can’t breathe. Deaton, as usual, won’t tell me anything. Or he just doesn’t know. I’m scared Derek, and so tired. Please come back soon. You’re the only who knows how bad the nightmares can really get. I think so much clearer when you’re around_.”...

 

Scott’s frantic message came next.

 

…” _Derek! You have to come back; you have to come back right away. Something’s happened to Stiles, and he won’t wake up. Just get here!_ ”...

 

He felt guilty the entire drive back into Beacon Hills. Standing, he was just about to head up and check on Stiles once more, when he heard it. Hell, the whole house heard it. The whole neighborhood probably heard it.

Shattering the silence was a blood-curdling scream.

Pleas of ‘help’ and ‘wait, stop!’ were so loud, Derek worried the glass might break. He was up the stairs in an instant with the rest of the pack hot on his heels. Once the door opened, they found Stiles in bed gasping for air.

His eyes were screwed shut, and the room reeked of fear. Scott pushed Derek out of the way and rushed to his friend’s bedside. “I think he’s choking,” he said, trying to move him into a better, more elevated position on the bed. No matter how hard he pulled and pushed, grunting all the while, Scott could not move him. “Derek, help me sit him up.”

Derek climbed upon the bed on the the other side of Stiles, and the bed creaked under his added weight. He’d seen the bed several times over the years. The frame could support far more weight than the three of them. He got his arm under Stiles’ shoulders and lifted, to no avail.

“Why can’t we move him? It’s like…”

“He weighs a ton,” he said, finishing Scott’s sentence. In health class, he’d learned first aid, and he remembered what to do if someone was choking. So, he checked Stiles’ mouth for anything that might be obstructing his airway. When finding none and Stiles still struggling for air, he breathed for him. Derek’s heart skipped a beat when Stiles’ chest stilled for a moment, and the fear that he’d just watched him die coursed through his body. But, within moments, Stiles began to breathe normally again. Derek heaved a sigh of relief and shifted, pulling Stiles’ body so that his head rested in Derek’s lap. “Call Deaton. This is- we haven’t seen this, yet.”

He watched Scott as he spoke to Deaton, but his mind was too preoccupied to listen in. Without realizing it, he’d begun stroking Stiles’ hair, and he would have stopped, but it made him feel like he was helping, that maybe it might comfort Stiles having someone there.

“Derek, Deaton says to check Stiles’ chest.”

Odd. Yet, Derek obliged, pushing up Stiles shirt.. This time, it was his turn to gasp. Stiles’ chest was one giant bruise, more or less, and he told Scott as much. It looked like he’d been crushed. Derek wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the contusion or the little bite marks on his pectorals.

He looked up when he heard the phone fall to the floor and Deaton’s voice coming from the speaker saying things like ‘wait right there,’ and ‘no one fall asleep.’

 

****

 

“What do mean there’s nothing we can do?” John snapped at Deaton. More than a few of the pack flinched at the volume and desperation of his voice.

“I’m sorry, John. If we’d known sooner...we could have done something, but when it progresses this far-”

John’s shoulders slumped as he collapsed into Stiles’ computer chair. “Run it by me again. What the hell is Alf Drunken?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alpdrücken. It’s another word for nightmare, but it’s literal translation is elf pressure. Essentially these creatures, alps, are a lot like incubi, but without the sexual component.”

“Well that makes me feel loads better about my son’s irreversible comatose state.”

Derek bit back a pained chuckle. Clearly, sarcasm and sass ran in the family.

“They tend to attack women. The bite marks are, well, alps like breast milk. Since Stiles is a man, they went after blood. They sit on the chests of their victims and cause vivid nightmares. In fact, our word ‘nightmare’ comes from another name for these creatures. I’ve never personally dealt with an alp attack.” He took a deep breath. “If this has been going on for months like we think it has, then this creature has been feeding on Stiles’ life force for months. When victims get to this state, where they will not wake up and are locked in their minds, there is nothing we can do. Even _if_ we managed to find and capture the alp responsible it will do no good. And I say _if_ because the creatures can shift into any form they want. They could even be invisible. I assume you are familiar with the phrase needle in a haystack.”

“But there has to be something!”

Derek cringed  at Scott’s harsh tone. If Scott was that angry, well the rest of the pack couldn’t be far behind. Derek, himself, was a ball of fury barely contained, but shouting and arguing would do Stiles no good.

They needed ideas not fighting.

He pondered for a minute, asking himself ‘ _what would Stiles do_?’ To be honest, Derek, when faced with what seemed like an impossible situation, tried to think what Stiles would do. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but it always seemed to give him a fresh perspective. Then, he came up with an idea. “What about if we repeated what we did with the Nogitsune? Send someone in after Stiles to pull him back out. Would that work?”

Deaton was quiet for a moment, and who knows what the man was thinking while he stood in silence? Derek certainly didn’t.

“Yes, I think that might.”

“I’ll do it. I was successful before. Maybe I can be again,” Scott nodded, resolute.

“You can’t,” he said. “With Peter gone, you’re the only other one here who’s performed the technique before.”

“I know my son. I could-”

Deaton cut him off. “You are entirely human, John. I would advise against it. It will take a connection to the Nemeton that you just don’t have. I’m sorry; I know you want to help him."

Before anyone else could say a thing, Derek spoke up. “I’ve been through it before, and came out just fine.”

“But Derek, you were an alpha then. Now, it could easily kill you.”

How could he say he felt dead already with the prospect of never hearing that biting sarcasm or seeing the elfin gleam in Stiles’ eyes again? He crossed an arm over his chest to rub the skin of his upper arm with his thumb. “I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try. I can do it; I’ll find him. I’ll bring him back.”

His conviction seemed to convince the good doc, and with Scott’s help, they moved Stiles downstairs, sitting him upright on the couch. Derek knew he couldn’t hide the way his heartbeat fluttered when he sat down, able to feel Stiles’ body heat through the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Now, Derek,” Deaton said, kneeling in front of him, “I need to stress that you need to find wherever he is in his head as quickly as possible. The longer you’re in there the harder it will be to find your way out. I don’t think I need to stress that some places you go may be grim and dark indeed.”

“Just do it, Scott.” He could feel the tips of Scott’s claws against the back of his neck, and before he missed his chance, he looked over at Stiles. If Derek never came back from this, at least the last thing he saw would be Stiles’ face. He was okay with that.

His eyelids slipped closed, and when the claws pierced into his skin, everything grew hazy.

 

****

 

Stiles blinked and covered his eyes. The lights shining in his face were blinding. Where the hell was he?

He took in his surroundings. The walls around him were made of thick glass, scratched with years of heavy use. His knees knocked when he stood; he felt like a newborn fawn, like he hadn’t used his legs in years. When he peered through the glass, he found himself staring into a crowded theater, old from the looks of it. Opera boxes lined the walls. The chair backs looked to be made of velvet. And…

Every face in the audience was the same.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of copies of himself looked back at him. Their eyes held the same scared expression he’d seen in his own too many times to count. They were clones of him, not the Nogitsune.

“For my next trick,” his voice, tinged with that biting snark he’d come to fear, echoed from behind him, “I took inspiration from Houdini himself! I give you, Stiles Water Torture.” The Nogitsune, dressed as a vintage magician, walked into view, gesticulating to the tank. “Isn’t it marvellous? Now, water will slowly drip into the tank. This may take a while, folks. You might want to duck out and grab a bite to eat in concessions. I assure you, this tank is sound,” he knocked on the glass, “there is no failsafe. When water has reached the top, here’s the trick. I’m gonna let you in on a secret…” he turned sideways, cupping his hand beside his mouth, “I’m not going to save him. You all get to watch him drown.”

Stiles jumped back away from the glass, scrambling for the back corner as the Nogitsune looked in on him. It was one thing to be quickly submerged with water, going fairly quick. It was something else entirely, to be tortured with his impending death.

He clawed at his scalp. “No, no- What do you want?” he screamed at him.

“I would have thought it was obvious by now. Chaos. Let the water begin!”

Stiles flinched when the first drops of water fell upon his head. Drip by drip- after awhile, they began to feel like jackhammers on his skull. And the Nogitsune, the smug bastard?

Sat stage right on a fucking throne, his feet propped up on an ottoman while he munched on popcorn.

“Let me out, you heartless asshole! I’ve had enough of this! What more do you want from me?”

He tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “To watch you suffer.”

 

****

  


Derek came to and stared up at distorted fluorescent lights from underwater. He was freezing. An ice bath.

He bolted upright. Water and ice cubes sloshed over the side, and he stood, looking around at an empty animal clinic.

“Stiles! You here?”

Hushed voices came from Deaton’s office, so he gravitated towards them. From where he lurked in the doorway, he saw Lydia and Isaac. Though they spoke in quiet tones, their fear was palpable.

“They’ve been under for 15 hours now. They need to get out of there. Or they will die for real!”

Realizing this as the night Stiles, Scott and Allison performed the sacrifice to save their parents, Derek hurried back into the exam room, his heart filled with hope that he’d find Stiles. However, though he saw three tubs, he only found Scott and Allison. The middle one, the one he’d just hopped out of, was empty. No Stiles.

He’d been foolish to expect to find him so easily. Instead, Derek walked right out the front door of the Animal Clinic where he came face to face with who he assumed was Mrs. Stilinski. Her and her son shared the same eyes and fair complexion, and just as he’d come to know about Stiles, the same temper.

“What are you doing here?” she screamed, striking him in the chest repeatedly. “I thought I told you to leave and never come back! Someone help me! He's trying to kill me!” Her blows moved to his face, and even though a werewolf, instinct told him to shield his face. “Take this changeling away, and bring me my real child! This is no son of mine!”

He backed away from her and, eyes flitting about the room, searched for the Stilinski he really wanted to see. “Stiles? Talk to me Stiles!”

Empty. And as he backed out the way he came, Derek felt sick to his stomach, wishing this was a corner of Stiles’ mind he never found.

 

****

 

He shivered, now standing in knee deep water. Another traumatizing crunch drew his attention, and if Stiles never saw popcorn again it would be too soon. Days now for all he knew, he’d been listening to the Nogitsune feast to his misery.

Two hours ago, the tears started falling. He couldn’t stop himself. His head pounded as the drops kept falling, and he wanted to die.

Permanently this time.

To cease to be, be stiff and bereft of life, to shuffle off his mortal coil. Become an ex-Stiles. And yet, the water kept falling. He felt certain, he would never be rid of this torture.

He’d begged for death three times so far, each one drawing maniacal laughter from his demented doppelgänger.

“Why won’t you let me just die?” he screamed, throwing himself at the walls of the tank.

“And lose such a perfect piece of entertainment? Not likely.”

 

****

 

The first punch knocked Derek on his ass, and with each kick to his ribs, he felt the breath leave his lungs in an agonizing rush.

“You’ll soon find your sense of value to this ridiculous excuse of a pack, is inflated at best. They don’t need you! Maybe this will teach you to learn when to keep your nose out of places it does,” another kick, “not,” this one hit his kidneys, “belong.” A glob of spit landed on Derek’s cheek, and he actually found himself whimpering as he watched Gerard Argent’s retreating back.

The buzz of electricity brought him back into the moment. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His heart raced.

He’d been at the wrong end of hunters and electricity far too many times in his life. Maybe if he were lucky, he’d never have to feel it again. None of his werewolf senses seemed to be of use to him, and it was then he came to understand he was experiencing all these memories (and most had been miserable so far) through Stiles’ eyes. Why couldn’t he go back and see the way Stiles had seen him the day they’d met? It could lend fantastic insight.

There was a clatter behind him, and turning, his heart broke at the sight of Erica and Boyd chained up behind him. He tried to free them, but he could not actually make contact with their electrified bonds. Stiles had been standing right here, seen them this way. Even though he’d confided in Derek that he’d seen them in the Argent’s basement, he didn’t mention the fear in their eyes, the tang of blood lingering on their clothes. He’d never spoken of the words Gerard had yelled as he beat him, never mentioned the spit.

Derek vowed, he would never stop until he found him, would stay in here as long as it took to bring him back. And then...he’d tell him everything, hold him tight, and if Stiles felt the same, he’d never let go.

 

****

 

Stiles spit out the water as lapped against his chin. Despite wishing for the end hundreds of times now, every inch higher the water rose, scared him further. He just wanted peace not fear.

He didn’t want to die alone where the only company he had was wearing a fucking pinstripe suit and a top hat.

“Tut, tut, Stiles. You’re no fun anymore. I liked you better screaming. You were more vibrant then. Now…” he tossed the deck of cards in his hard over his shoulder. All fifty-two of them fluttered to the ground like leaves. He snapped his fingers, and the water began dripping faster. “I’ll see you in our next stop. Just wait ‘til you see what I have planned next.”

With that, he walked out.

“Oh, and Stiles,” he said poking his head back into the auditorium, “I have nothing planned next. Time’s up. When you die this time, it’s for good.”

The slamming door echoed through the theater. Every seat in the house was now empty. He was alone, and with the water pouring in, he craned his head back to give himself as much space to breathe for as long as possible. His pulse raced; his eyes were squeezed shut. Black spots appeared in his vision as he gasped fast and shallow. His headache had vanished from the adrenaline, and his legs were almost too weak to keep him standing. That would lead to death for sure, and he…

Didn’t want to die.

“Help,” he spluttered, “p..pl...please help me.” There was no one. His whimpering cries for help would go unanswered.

Tears he thought he could no longer cry, forced themselves out of his eyes. “Please.” His terror gave way to sobs, and he was just about to give up when he heard it, the most wonderful sound in the world.

Derek’s voice.

“Stiles! Where are you?”

Like a vision of power and speed, Derek appeared in the auditorium, running up the center aisle like the hounds of hell chased, nipping on his heels. “Oh God, Stiles!” His shaking hands pulled with desperation at the hinges on the top of the tank, to no avail. “Can you push off the bottom?”

Mouth now underwater with only his nose to keep him breathing, Stiles shook his head.

When Derek’s attempt to punch through the glass failed, Stiles watched as he, too, began sobbing. “Keep fighting. Okay? I’m gonna find something to break the glass.”

 

****

 

Bursting into the theater to see Stiles trapped and drowning rocked him to the core. He’d walked into this scene in Stiles’ mind only to hear the Nogitsune’s parting words. Frantic, Derek scrambled around in the lobby, near all the exits, everywhere for a fireman’s axe. Stiles had only minutes, and Derek couldn’t watch him die.

His mouth was now dry as the Sahara, and there was a tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat that he struggled to breathe around. He found nothing. Instead, he rushed back to the tank, grabbing the chair from the side of the stage. It looked good and sturdy.

Unleashing the fury, he slammed the chair against the glass. Over and over and over. With each unsuccessful strike, his heart broke a little more. He couldn’t see any longer through the tears in his eyes.

With balled fists he pounded on the walls of the tank, and Stiles struck back. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, because otherwise, Stiles was dying alone.

He opened his fist, spreading his fingers, and pressed his palm to glass. Stiles did the same. This was as close as they’d get to ever holding hands. “Stiles,” he whimpered, voice cracking and thick with tears, “don’t go. Please. I need you.”

He could see the look of finality in Stiles' eyes and knew his end was near. Doubting Stiles could even hear him underwater, he mouthed an ‘I love you’, one Stiles’ returned by pointing to his eye first and then his forehead; he finished with tapping his sternum, holding up two fingers.  _‘I know. Me too’_

 

Derek pressed his forehead to the glass against Stiles'. If he tried hard, he could pretend there was nothing separating them. With every ounce of strength he could muster Derek punched the glass one more time.

He sank to his knees in grief, and feeling like his own air was running out, almost swore he could hear the sound of cracking before passing out.

 

****

 

The sensation of being moved came over him amidst complaints of ‘Careful’ and ‘I’m trying. He’s fucking heavy’. Soon, his body came to rest on a soft bed that smelled vaguely familiar, and warmth overtook him as a blanket was pulled up over his shaking body.

“Thank you,” a voice from his right said. “For saving my son.”

He turned his head (a head which felt like it was filled with lead) to see John sitting in Stiles’ computer chair, looking the worst he’d ever seen him. Dread settled into the pit of his stomach.

It didn’t work.

“I didn’t save him; he drowned,” he sobbed into his hands. “I tried and failed to save someone I care about. Story of my life.”

“Guess again.” a thin and weak voice asked on the other side of him.

And…

“Stiles?” What?

He was so exhausted, limbs so heavy, that rolling onto his side was a monumental task. But Stiles was there, alive and breathing. He looked like hell, but he was alive. Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached out and cupped Stiles’ cheek.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Is that why you left? Because you were afraid?”

“No,” his thumb brushed along his bottom lip. “I left to fix myself. I left so I could be good enough for you.”

“You’ve always been good enough for me, Derek. I meant it, too. Thank you for coming to find me. You almost died for it.”

He snuggled closer to him. “Would have been worth it.”

When Stiles grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers, he didn’t need to pretend. This time, there was nothing keeping them apart. He gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze, and though he knew Stiles would have an uphill battle to get himself back to normal, Derek would be there every step of the way. He would keep his promise.

He'd never let go.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/)


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